


these little earthquakes

by language_escapes



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen, Homelessness, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 02:21:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1411372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/language_escapes/pseuds/language_escapes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She ignores it until she can't anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	these little earthquakes

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt "Joan, Sherlock, Seeking Solace". Originally posted on my tumblr.
> 
> The piece mentioned is Vivaldi's violin concerto in A minor, second movement.

She ignores the fact that her heart is racing all day.

She ignores it because they have a case, and she can’t afford to be distracted right now. She ignores it because it isn’t relevant, and besides, it probably isn’t him. There are lots of homeless people in the city. A lot of them are Asian ( _only about one percent_ , her traitor brain whispers), a lot of them have Haloperidol in their pockets ( _the exact medication he took, when he took it_ ), a lot of them live in the same area and die in the same area that her father was last seen in. There is no evidence that it’s him. None. So she ignores her racing heart, pushes aside the slow slide of panic, and focuses on their case, because she’s needed here, now, to find little Lacey, not wonder if the Asian homeless man with Haloperidol in his pocket found dead this morning is her father.

She ignores it until she can’t anymore.

She tries to pretend she isn’t shaking when she walks downstairs where Sherlock is working in the living room, but she knows it isn’t working when Sherlock looks up at her, his mouth already open to say something, and then snaps his mouth shut, eyes going wide and worried.

“Can-” she begins, and then stops, rubbing her hands on her thighs. “Can you play your violin?” she asks, the first time she has ever asked.

Sherlock rises from the floor gracefully, in one smooth motion. “Of course. Do you have a preference?”

“Vivaldi,” she whispers, because her father loved- loves- Vivaldi, would hum it all the time, whether he knew her or not. “A minor. Second movement.”

Sherlock leaves to go find his violin, and she settles into the armchair, tucking her feet beside her.

Tomorrow she will go to the morgue.

Tonight, she will listen to the songs her father hums.


End file.
